The Things I Never Said

I only come before dawn— that’s when everything feels lighter, like the world hasn’t remembered to be heavy yet. It’s the only time I can find her without all the noise. My mother sleeps with the curtains drawn and the hallway light still on. She’s never turned it off. Even now.

She sleeps curled toward the edge of the bed, facing the door, like she’s still waiting for it to open. Like I might walk in, late again, with excuses on my lips and apologies I never bothered to say.

She still doesn’t lock it. Not since the night I left.

I sit with her most mornings. Just for a while. I perch on the edge of the mattress, the way I used to when I wanted to ask for money or tell her something hard. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but the shape of her face is soft in the blue shadow, the lines around her mouth more visible than I remember. Have I ever looked at her? No, not the way I do now.

She sighs in her sleep, murmuring something too soft to catch.

I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

__________

I found the way back a few days after everything changed. Or maybe I never really left. I don’t remember much about the in-between. Just that I opened my eyes and was back in the hallway of the house I swore I’d never come back to. Barefoot, silent, weightless. The picture frames on the walls tilted at the same slight angles. The floor still creaked where it always did. It all looked the same.

Except quieter.

And lonelier.

My room was exactly as I left it. Maybe cleaner. My mom has made the bed— folded my favorite green blanket and left it on the pillow like she still believed I might need it. My Squishmallows were scattered across the bed, still flattened from when I used to lie on them and cry.

My phone was plugged in on the nightstand. Fully charged, face down.

There were messages, people who missed me. I read them. Over and over again.

__________

The morning breaks; I hover in the corners of the kitchen while she makes her coffee with trembling hands. I follow her footsteps down the hallway— the one I used to storm down with rolled eyes and slammed doors.

I didn’t know back then how precious those footsteps were.

__________

That first morning back, I tried opening my closet. The handle didn’t budge beneath my hand.

I tried again. Nothing.

But when I looked away, the door creaked open on its own, slow and reluctant.

Inside hung a row of my old blouses and blazers, untouched. One of my prom dress options was in a new garment bag. The black one we fought about— my mother had said it was too "dark", I said it was perfect. I’d worn a teal one instead. She was so excited when she saw me. I rolled my eyes.

I never said thank you. I never said so many things.

__________

I started small. I’d open the curtains before she woke, so the sun would catch on her favorite flowers on the windowsill. I left her old recipe book open on the counter to the page for arroz con pollo—my favorite. I’d pull out the photo album we made together when I was fourteen, before it all fell apart. I’d place it on the coffee table, open to our first trip to Hawaii— a picture of our family standing on rocks, the waves crashing behind us.

She always paused when she saw these things. Frowned. Touched them gently, like they might crumble.

She never said anything out loud. Not yet.

__________

She started by leaving my favorite yogurt out every morning. I think she knew I wouldn’t eat it, but still… she tried.

Now, she tries in different ways.

Last week, she cleaned my room again. Not in the frantic, desperate way she used to when I was messy and alive, but slowly. Gently. As if dusting could bring something back. She found my favorite black hoodie on the back of my desk chair, the one I wore every day of sophomore and junior year. She folded it like a prayer and placed it on the bed.

I whispered, “I miss you, too.”

She didn’t hear me. Or maybe she did. Her hand lingered there for a long time.

__________

I try to show her I’m still here. I turn the radio to her favorite song sometimes— the Marc Anthony one she used to dance to in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up and sweat on her cheeks. She used to grab my hands and make me twirl even when I protested. I’d laugh and complain, but secretly, I loved it.

I left that song playing in the kitchen one morning. She stood frozen in the doorway when she heard it. Her eyes filled up, and her lips moved like she wanted to say something—to me, maybe.

Instead, she turned it off. Too fast. Too soon.

I wish I could tell her I’m sorry. For not dancing more. For not saying thank you. For acting like she was always just… there.

I’m sorry for the door slams. The silence. The skipped dinners. The way I made her feel like an afterthought. I thought I had more time. I thought she would always be there, humming in the kitchen, waiting for me to come around.

But most of all, I’m sorry I left the way I did.

No note. No goodbye. Just silence.

And the worst part? I wanted her to find me.

I wanted her to hurt like I hurt. I thought maybe it would make her understand how broken I felt.

But the moment it was done, that thought turned into shame.

Because it wasn’t her fault.

It was mine.

__________

Sometimes I catch her talking to me.

Not in the way she used to. Not like a mother scolding or teasing or checking in. But like a woman who lost her heart.

She whispered once, “I should’ve said something. I should’ve seen something.”

I wanted to scream, “No, Mom, you were good. You were the best.”

But all that came out was wind against the windows.

She thought she failed me, thought that she missed the signs. She thought if she’d knocked louder on the bathroom door that night, if she’d hugged me harder that morning, if she’d just told me how much she loved me one more time, maybe I would’ve stayed.

But it wasn’t her.

It was the part of me that stopped believing I could be loved that deeply. The voice in my head that said I was too much and not enough all at once. The ache I couldn’t name.

__________

She thinks she failed me. She didn’t.

I failed her. I left too often. I chose my friends, loud laughter, and the ache of freedom over dinner at home. I chose sleepovers over my own bed. I thought I had time. That she’d always be there, that I could say the things that mattered “next time.” But the “next times” turned into never.

I never told her I loved her—not the way she deserved to hear it. Not the way that made her believe it on the nights I didn’t come home or the mornings I left without saying goodbye.

__________

I tried writing to her.

In my old journal, the one I kept hidden behind the dresser. The entries don’t last. They fade with the light. But sometimes—just sometimes—they stay long enough for her to read.

“I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t know how to ask for help. I didn’t think I deserved it.”

She read that one with her hand pressed over her mouth. She cried.

There was this picture on the fridge—me at nine, missing teeth, and holding a homemade Mother’s Day card. I took it down one night, turned it over, and wrote on the back with everything I could remember of my voice: I always loved you. I was just too proud to say it. Too scared to slow down and see what I had.

The next morning, she found it on the kitchen table. She stared at it for a long time. And then, she smiled. Just a little.

__________

We leave pieces for each other, her and I. A sweatshirt folded just so. A song left playing. My old journal turned to a page where I once wrote, “My mom makes me feel safe, even when the world doesn’t.”

She sings now, too. Quietly. Little lullabies I used to pretend I hated. One night, she sang the one about the moon, the one I always fell asleep to when I was small.

I sang along.

She stopped halfway through, looked around the room. Her eyes were wet.

“I know you’re still here,” she whispered.

“I forgive you.”

And then—so quietly I almost missed it—she said:

“Please forgive me, too.”

And I broke, in a way you don’t when you’re still alive. You see, I’m not supposed to be here. But I haven’t figured out how to leave. Not until she knows—really knows—that I never stopped loving her. That I was stupid and young and blind, but never ungrateful. Never unloving.

I just didn’t know how to say it until it was too late. But I still come home. Because sometimes, forgiveness takes time. And love, even unspoken, doesn’t go quiet forever.

And in the quiet between us,

I hope she hears me say—

I love you.

I’m sorry.

And I never, ever stopped being your daughter.